


Patien(t)ce

by yonderdarling



Series: Doctor/Missy Oneshots [12]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Missy did the hurting, The Vault (Doctor Who), Whump, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 22:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: In a fit of rage, Missy destroys the contents of the Vault.





	Patien(t)ce

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to get back into writing fic, and this...thing resulted. Posting it so I stop poking it with a stick. Unbetaed. I don't want to shock anyone, but Missy ends up in the bath.

She ached. That was - everything. Every breath caught in her throat; her jaw was tight. As she tried to shift the weight from her chest, she made a low noise. Pain shot through her biceps and forearms.

For a moment, everything went dark and quiet and red again, and she focused on breathing. The weight on her chest shifted, and she let out a long breath. Opened her eyes, and her vision was blurry. Something tickled at her jaw, and Missy closed her eyes again. One arm was too stiff, throbbing with pain, so she shifted the other, stroked the Doctor's hair as he lay against her, breathing in his smell.

"How's your arm?" someone else, someone unwelcome, asked.

"Mmph," was all she could manage.

"Open your mouth," said Unwelcome, and Missy let her mouth open. Her jaw cracked; her tongue was dry. "Thank you." Something pressed against her lip. "Close. Thank you." And then, perhaps fielding her future question. "You obliterated the fancy first-aid kit, so that's a genuine glass-and-mercury thermometer, circa 1941. Don't bite, I know Time Lords can't ingest mercury."

_It's 1941._

She must drift off again, because her eyes shoot open when something cold and horrible-damp is pressed against her forehead. Clammy. Clammy. Cooling.

"You're hot," said Unwelcome and Annoying. "I'm going to shift the Doctor - "

Her fingers tightened in the Doctor's hair, all fluffy and light under her skin, and Unwelcome sighs.

"Okay. I'm untucking the blankets around your feet. Right?"

"Mm."

Her ankles were itchy. Oh well. She kept stroking the Doctor's hair, felt his steady breathing against her. Dropped off again. Woke up, chilled, as Annoying and Unwelcome removed the cold compress. She opened her eyes properly, squinted at the grey-lit Vault. She licked her dry lips, and Annoying and Unwelcome quickly dabbed them with a cloth.

"Don't move," he said, and Missy felt the burning pain in her ribs, and decided to follow his instruction.

There was a sleepy groan, and the Doctor shifted off her, rested his head on her shoulder instead. Missy winced, and he stiffened, his eyes shooting open. He made a low noise, pressed his face into her neck. He spoke.

"Missy?"

He rolled off, propped himself up on his elbow, studied her face. Missy squinted at him. He had a split lip and scratches on his temple, puffy but healing.

"Nardole?" the Doctor asked, eyes fixed on Missy.

"Her temperature's down to normal," said Unwelcome and Annoying. "Doctor, how are you?"

"Fine," said the Doctor, and cleared his throat. "Could you give us a minute?"

"Are you going to be alright?" Nardole asked, probably thinking he was being very subtle and obtuse with his implications. "With the whole…"

The Doctor tutted, and Nardole went and stood in the corner of the Vault, making a big show of covering his ears and shutting his eyes.

Missy finally glanced down, saw the tangled bed sheets, saw the leather restraints around her ankles, fastened to the bedframe, within the containment field, on the dais. One knee was strapped, and her right arm was encased in plaster.

"Broken ribs," she mumbled.

"Yes. Do you want some more medication?"

"No."

The Doctor moved, pressed a hand to her forehead. "Yeah, he did a good job. You're bang on."

Missy cast her eyes around the prison.

It was a disaster area; books shredded and thrown about, what little furniture she had smashed into pieces (well, it was mostly made of a balsawood hybrid, but still), clothes shredded, crockey and cutlery everywhere.

"I - had a funny turn," she murmured, and the Doctor looked down at her. "Didn't I."

"Yes. Shouting and screaming and smashing the furniture."

"How did I hurt my arm?"

The Doctor still had his hand on her forehead, and he moved it, stroked her greasy hair back. The alerter she got, Missy realised, the dirtier she was. She felt grimy. She grimaced.

"What happened?"

"Three days," said the Doctor. "You were shouting and screaming, kicking the walls down, and you went all quiet."

Missy looked down at herself. "But how did I hurt my arm?"

Still stroking her hair, the Doctor leant across and kissed her forehead. Then, he turned his head and looked at Nardole.

"What?" Nardole said.

The Doctor looked at Missy, brushed her hair back off her face.

"You're all chapped, let me just get you some water."

The Doctor slipped out of bed, and took a moment to cross the detritus of the Vault, and got her a cup of water and a straw. He went across to Nardole, tapped him on the shoulder.

"Out," said the Doctor. "We're going to have a talk."

"Sir, I don't think - " Nardole began, and they both began to have a fierce, whispered argument. Nardole jabbed the Doctor in the chest, and the Doctor swatted at him.

"I want the Doctor," said Missy, and coughed. Even her neck hurt. "Fuck off, egg."

Nardole made his reluctant exit from the Vault as the Doctor came back to Missy's side, sat back on the mattress. He put the cup on the floor for a moment, wrapped one arm around Missy's shoulders, tugged her into a half-seated position, and propped her up on a pillow. Then, he retrieved the water, held the straw to her lips.

"You've bruised your collarbone too," he said. "So just, gentle, gentle, right?"

"Right."

Missy sipped, then gave up, and slurped, gulping it back. Beautiful, delicious, cold, wonderful. She drank until the cup was empty, and gasped for breath. She coughed. The Doctor handed her his handkerchief, and she awkwardly dabbed at her lips.

"We had a fight," said the Doctor, putting the cup down, not looking at her. He shifted onto the bed properly, sat up against the headboard, his long, skinny legs stretched out before him. "You'd been bashing at the walls for a week, and I came in to get you to stop kicking the furniture around, and then you went for me, so I shoved you against the wall."

"You hit me?" Missy asked.

"You hit me first!"

Missy chuckled, and it hurt her ribs, so she stopped.

"You're on a few drugs. Sedatives, and painkillers. Missy, you were off your rocker for a week, I couldn't even get you to drink. You were on a drip until - " the Doctor looked around. "Well, I don't know, but Nardole must have taken it out."

And true, there was a bandage on the back of her hand. Missy picked at it.

"You punched me in the face, and I gave you a shove, and you fell funny," said the Doctor. He sighed. "I'm sorry."

"You broke my arm?"

"Yes."

"Well."

"Well."

Missy drifted for a moment, then caught herself when her head slumped, jarring her neck. The Doctor steadied her head with his hand, cool on her face.

"Why is it such a mess in here?" she asked. "Surely you could get Humpty to Dumpty this all out the back while I was asleep?"

The Doctor took her left, unbroken wrist. Missy tried to take his hand, and pretended not to have when it turned out he was just taking her pulses, looking at his watch.

"Thready but nothing to worry about," Missy guessed.

"Mhm," said the Doctor, letting go.

He lay down and looked up at the grey ceiling, dark circles under his eyes.

"Because this is punishment and reform, Missy. We'll clean up together when you're better," the Doctor said eventually. "You need to see the consequences of your actions."

"I think I'm feeling the consequences of my actions right now," said Missy. "Come on, physical labour doesn't look good on either of us. You've seen these nails."

"I'll show you the scans if you want. Your arm will be healed in a couple of days."

Missy pursed her lips. "I don't remember it. Did I hit my head?"

"No."

"You sure? You've never been the best at neuroscience."

He took her wrist again, and then slid his hand down until their fingertips were pressed together. Missy tilted her head, slowly, painfully, and then pressed her nose into his shoulder. She sniffed.

"You've been in here a while," she said. "You smell."

"I've been monitoring you for two days now - do you really think I'd just fall asleep on you for no reason?"

Missy paused, studying their hands. "I - well, you sure? You've never been the best at intercranial psychic monitoring."

"Well, I'm better at Nardole," the Doctor said wryly, and she giggled, which hurt her chest. Then, "Or as you call him, annoying and irritating," he added, and Missy laughed, then groaned in pain.

The Doctor sat, tugged the blankets back up around her waist. "Sit tight, I'll get you some more pills," he said, and Missy shook her head. "No? Okay."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Why did you do it?"

Missy shook her head, and the Doctor made a small noise.

"Alright. Alright," he said. "Okay. How are you feeling? Pain on one-to-ten?"

"Two?" Missy said.

The Doctor wriggled around, rolled so he was facing her. He tucked his face into her side. Missy stroked his hair.

"I don't know why I did it," she said. "Sometimes, I like to take things apart to see how they work."

"I know."

"Engines. Books. That clockwork squirrel you gave me."

"I thought you liked that squirrel."

"I do. That's why I put it back together. It watches me bathe."

"And then I guess," the Doctor said. "You started taking other things apart?"

Missy popped her lips. "No, Doctor," she said. "Not right now. I've learnt a lesson, even if it's just a reminder to internalise the anger, crush it down, or take it out in a healthy way. Is Nardole available on request as a punching bag?"

"Let's keep searching for a healthier way," the Doctor said into her waist. He shifted, slung his arm low across her hips. "Okay?"

"Okay."

Missy reached out with her good hand and rubbed his elbow.

"I smell," she said.

"You do."

"Don't sugarcoat it, then," Missy said.

"That was sugarcoating," said the Doctor. "I'll help you have a bath later. Got some plastic bags to wrap around your cast, all that. And I'd love to see what you did with that squirrel."

"Wow, the five-star treatment."

"Five-star would be Nardole," said the Doctor. "He does a great massage and mixes a good mojito."

"I hate mojitos."

"So do I, and you can't have them on this medication anyway." The Doctor shifted, rubbed her thigh. "I'll wash your hair, and we'll get Nardole to remake the bed because I think I bled on the sheets a bit. He can do that."

Missy ran her thumb over the puffy scratches on his temple. "Did I do this to you?"

"You have got - a hell of a right hook now."

Missy went back to stroking his hair, seeing it curl over her fingers. "I'm sorry. It'll happen again."

"I know. I know. Probably."

"How do you get rid of your anger?" A long pause. "Doctor?"

"Hm?"

"What do you do with your anger, if you can't take things apart?"

"When you lied about Gallifrey," said the Doctor. "I took it out on the TARDIS. She was hurt. She forgave me." He moved his hand up to her waist, tugged her shirt up. "After I went back, I did wonder whether you lied to protect me."

"I misstated," Missy said tiredly, fingers still in his hair. "I mean, I said where it was. You just didn't correctly look when."

"Okay. Uh, well. That's that. I guess, I try and find useful outlets for it. Like that clockwork squirrel. My radio was on the fritz, and - "

"Wow, a broken radio solves all-encompassing anger."

The Doctor propped himself up on his elbow, pulled her shirt up over her waist. He ran a hand over her bruised skin. Missy hissed, looked at the blue and purple mottling her stomach and hips.

"That is - bad," she said.

"Mm."

"Doctor? I'll try to be sorry."

Missy stroked his soft hair off his forehead. The Doctor dipped his head, pressed a gentle kiss just beneath her belly button, in a patch of unhurt pale skin. Missy hummed. He moved, his lips gentle, around the edge of a bruise, to the dip beside her hip. The bottom of her ribcage.

Missy shifted, the leather restraint trailing on the floor.

"Too much?"

"It's nice. I like it. Why are you - doing that?"

The Doctor shrugged. It looked odd with him leaning over her, his hair flopping this way and that. He leant down and kissed her side. Missy let out a slow breath.

"This is a unique kind of torture," she murmured.

"Sorry."

"It's good. No, no, don't stop - " Missy said, and the Doctor grinned up at her, rolled off. "Hey, hey, I'm hurt."

"You did that to yourself."

"I - " Missy closed her eyes, breathed out.

"Look at that anger management," said the Doctor.

"It's annoyance management, not anger management."

The Doctor chuckled. He rolled out of the bed, stepped out of the containment field and headed for the bathroom, closing the door behind him. After a few minutes, he opened it again.

"Would you like a bath, or do you want to sleep?" he called.

Missy tried to sit up, and groaned. "Yes, please," she said, and rubbed a hand over her stomach, felt waves of pain from the bruises. She breathed out, and the next thing she knew, the Doctor was crouched at the foot of the bed, unstrapping her foot.

"Wakey wakey," he said, and Missy grumbled. "Your bath awaits. Want me to carry you?"

Missy sat, and winced at the pressure on her middle and ankle. She braced herself with the bedframe, and took the Doctor's proffered hand, stood carefully. She stumbled.

"Yeah, no," the Doctor said, and before Missy could protest, he was looping his arm around her waist, lifting her into his arms. He grunted, stepping off the dais. "Is your weight dimensionally transcendent, because you weigh a ton."

"And you're a goddamned phasmid. People who live in glass Vaults shouldn't throw stones," Missy said, and the Doctor opened the bathroom door with his foot.

"I'm putting you down."

"Being put down," said Missy.

Floor tiles cold on her feet. The bath was half-full, steam curling up from the bubbly water, tap still turned on.The little clockwork squirrel sat on the edge of the tub, watching benevolently.

"It's something I got off the TARDIS. Bubblebath is impossible to get under rationing," said the Doctor. "I know you like it, thought you could have something nice."

Missy began unlacing her nightgown, avoiding his eyes.

"I think showing weakness is important," said the Doctor slowly, checking the water's temperature with one hand. He turned the tap off. "I mean - admitting you need help. I think that's - a good part, of becoming good. Letting people know when you need them."

"So?"

"Could you help me wash my hair?" Missy asked, letting her top fall to the floor.

"Sure," said the Doctor. "Pants?"

Her ankle was all red from the leather restraint, and Missy held onto the Doctor's shoulders as he knelt before her, tugged her pyjama pants down her legs. She stepped out of them. The Doctor found a roll of plastic in his pocket and wrapped it around her cast a few times, up and down, over her fingers, keeping it watertight.

"Couldn't give me one of those futuristic healing sprays?" Missy asked, as he taped up the ends.

"There's explosive chemicals in those I didn't think you should have access too," said the Doctor. "You should wear your injuries for a while. Come on, hold onto me and you can get in."

"I feel - very - naked, right now."

"You are."

"I mean exposed."

Missy used her good hand to rub the back of her neck. Goosepimples rose over her skin. The Doctor nodded wanly.

"Can you just get in the bath, okay?"

"Okay."

It took a bit of manoeuvring and awkward gripping, but eventually Missy was lowered into the tub, and the Doctor found the soap. He handed it to her. It had little flecks of sea-salt in it.

"Nice," said Missy, pleased the bubbles were covering the bruises on her legs.

"Too hot? Too cold?"

"Just right," she said, and the Doctor chuckled at a joke she clearly didn't understand. "Doctor?"

He came into her line of vision, and Missy saw he had shed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, unbuttoned his collar. On this version of the Doctor, this was basically his equivalent of running about in a red leather g-string.

"Just getting your hair stuff," he said, holding up a bag.

There was a flannel. The Doctor dipped that into the water, began to dab carefully at her collarbone. Missy watched the squirrel for a while, the gleam of the lights on his copper back.

"You want to do this?"

"Yeah, I'll do it," said Missy, taking the cloth. She swiped awkwardly at her ribs, wincing, and then under her arms. "And now, hair." She dropped the flannel into the water.

The Doctor took the showerhead out of the bag - couldn't leave that in with Missy - and connected it to the tap. Again, he tested the water on his hand. Missy extended her good arm, and the Doctor trickled it down her wrist. "Alright?"

"Good."

"Okay, tip your head back."

Missy tipped her head back, her hair cascading down her shoulders. The Doctor hummed absently as he dampened it, found the shampoo, lathered it up and massaged it into Missy's scalp. Missy joined in with his humming, singing quietly under her breath.

"What's that?"

"Oh, something. I don't know," she said, and sighed. "That feels nice."

"How's your arm?"

"Achey."

"I'll get you some painkillers when you're done here," said the Doctor. "Close your eyes. Are they closed?"

"Yes."

He rinsed her hair, shut the water off, found the butter-soft conditioner.

"This one's mango and coconut," he said, when Missy sniffed. "Nardole chose it."

"I don't like it," she said. "I like - "

"Roses, lemons - "

"My favourite is lavender," said Missy. "You like it too."

"I do, I do. I like how you smell. Well, not right now," said the Doctor, and Missy chuckled.

He smoothed the conditioner through her hair, let it sit, and rummaged around in the bathroom cabinet for a comb. Missy wiped herself down with the flannel again, washed her face. The Doctor knelt back down, fiddled with her hair for a moment, then tutted.

"Close your eyes," he said, and rinsed the conditioner out, combing it roughly with his fingers. "Right, second attempt."

"What's wrong?"

"It's just - very knotted."

Missy blew a raspberry. "I'm tired, Doctor, can't we just leave it and deal with it later?"

"It's going to hurt no matter when we untangle it," said the Doctor.

"I'm tired. Please. I want to go back to bed, and I want to sleep till my arm's better. That's my painkiller request, by the way. Lots of."

He smoothed his hand over her head. "You're sure? You're not going to lose your shit at me in two days when you've got mats in your hair?"

"I'll deal with it."

A pause. Missy squeezed out the flannel as best she could, one handed, and hung it over the edge of the tub. Then, she gripped the side and started to pull herself up -

"Woah, woah, no," said the Doctor, catching her slick, bare waist. "Fine, fine. Please, hold onto me, I don't want you to fall."

Carefully, painfully, Missy stepped out of the bath and stood, dripping on the tiles as the Doctor fetched her towels. He knelt at her feet, and she grinned.

"Don't get any ideas," said the Doctor, passing one towel up to her. "I'll start at the bottom, you start at the top."

Feet. Hair. Legs. Shoulders. The Doctor stood, dried her torso, helped her wrap her hair in a light towel, twisted it up off her face. Missy swayed.

"I've kept you up far too long," he said, taking the plastic off her cast, throwing it into the shower-bag. "Come on, bed."

"It seems unfair - " MIssy yawned. "That you're not naked while I am."

"I'll make it up to you. I've got your dressing gown. Missy, don't go to sleep, put on your dressing gown. Well, most of it."

The Doctor wrapped her robe loosely around her shoulders, guided her good arm through it, tied the belt securely at her waist.

"Want me to carry you? Okay."Arms. "Missy, hold your arm in, you're going to hit it on something. Okay. Okay."

 

She woke up with the Doctor asleep in a battered armchair beside the bed, his head lolling to one side. She felt the sheets against her bare skin, squinted and saw her dressing gown across the Doctor's lap. There was an IV tube in her elbow again, feeding pale pink liquid into her veins. Missy licked her dry lips, cleared her throat. The Doctor didn't move, outside of snoring. Missy took her eyes off him, surveyed the Vault. Still destroyed.

"He's exhausted," said Nardole, and Missy turned so fast her neck cracked. "He hasn't left you alone since you were knocked out."

Missy moved her head back to face the Doctor. "He makes his own choices. He's a rational…ish, adult."

"Not when it comes to you. And it's my job to ensure at least one of us three sees things clearly here. That you are dangerous, manipulative, evil, cruel - "

"Are you done?"

"No!" said Nardole, and kept listing off pejorative adjectives.

Missy laid her head back down, relaxed into the pillows. She stretched out her left arm - though her right was feeling better - and took the Doctor's outstretched hand. She closed her eyes.

"Fuck off, Egg."

"You're cleaning this up," Nardole said. "You'll see. He'll see what you really are. Finally."

The Doctor squeezed her fingers. Missy smiled, and slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
